


liquid sky

by Lua



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Unbeta'd, canon compliant up until beginning of 5b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lua/pseuds/Lua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter would say being locked in Eichen House, being locked inside his mind, and left to rot was the worst punishment they could've inflicted on him. He didn't dare hope it would end, and he never expected Stiles would set him free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. coming down

After the panic was gone, the depression came quickly. There was no escaping the dooming knowledge Peter was left for dead.

Again.

The werewolf had had time to think it over, but that was the truth and to say it like that was laughable in a desperate sort of way. Time was all Peter had now. He was terribly aware of himself, aware of the anxiety and the constant panic numbing his thoughts. He was aware that being trapped inside his head again wasn't something Peter planned to ever experience again. He... had trusted – hoped, really -  that people wouldn't want a repeat of his alpha days. He was wrong; they clearly didn't mind it. Peter overestimated their fear.

He could see spider webs in the ceiling during rare moments of confused awareness of his surroundings, but, even then, he was locked in his mind again. Peter had no idea how long it had been since he was taken to Eichen House so he tried to avoid thinking how much time had passed since he looked into Valack's eye and saw himself dying again. He realized, then, as Valack played with his mind, that no one would come to rescue him. His plans, his hopes, his fears; nothing mattered because he would be left waiting to die locked in his mind as his body withered away.

His life had been a collection of bad decisions.

And now he was alone.

Sometimes, Peter could hear distorted voices down the hallway, outside the room. Outside of reach. He wanted to claw his way out and run; he wanted to make them suffer for doing this to him. They had won. They had taken his claws and teeth, his strength, his wit. They had taken everything but his life, and for that Peter wanted revenge. Except…

He was tired, now.

Peter's mistakes weren't big enough to warrant an execution, but the message was loud and clear and it cut itself a place in his mind. He wasn't welcome.

He wasn't pack.

He wasn't family because his family burned and Peter burned with them with the unlucky difference that he came out of the other side still alive. Sort of.

Alive, but weak.

And alone.

And scared.

And broken.

Peter could smell a mess of distant scents he didn't recognize. He decided those belonged to orderlies or visitors. People of no importance to him. He wondered if anyone ever came for him and found him missing, he wondered if he had any concerned visitors – Derek, perhaps – who got told he was dead. It hurt, and so Peter decided it was best to stop hoping he would be saved. It would be safer to give up on hope, and it was so easy to do so.

Bit by bit, the depression became only apathy, and Peter felt himself drowning in his own thoughts. It was boring and, yet, exhausting.

Most days, the werewolf tried to sleep as soon as he realized he was awake. He got lost in the passage of time. He got lost in the scents and the voices and his own memories. There was no point in trying to keep himself sane. No one would come and Peter wasn’t going anywhere on his own.

After some time, Peter started dreaming of the odd girl he met once at the police station; the one who heard his thoughts after the fire. Peter didn't regret her actions, he didn't direct her after all, but her presence in his dreams unnerved him. He could only assume he felt guilty. In the dreams, she was just there.

A reminder.

Peter went mad once. Pete went mad, locked inside his head, and she was caught in it. Unlucky, but not his fault. Not his fault. He hadn't chosen to go mad. He still didn't. It was not his fault. His family burned, Peter burned, and Scott will burn so Peter did not apologize.

Peter wouldn't burn with him. For him. The point was moot; Peter would die in Eichen House, alone and terrified in his own head. It wasn’t an improvement.

But here he was, dreaming of a girl who only reminded him of his dead family who wasn't coming to help him. Who couldn't come to help. His lost pack. There was nothing to mark the days. He wondered if the girl would go mad with him again.

Some days Peter thought he could feel his body, could connect to it again. He could see the spider web in the corner. He could feel his fingers spasm; he could smell the stale air in the room. He could hope, then; he could bring himself to try to get a finger to move, a claw to come out. But when it was gone, and it always was, Peter could feel himself breaking a little more each time. All he had was dreaming.

He'd dream of freedom sometimes. In the dreams he could walk, run, talk. They seemed real. Most days, Peter would welcome them, and he was sure that was part of what was keeping him sane, the dreams.

And Meredith.

She didn't speak to him, but the werewolf assumed that happened because Peter himself didn't know her very well. She told him her name once.

All days were the same. The same endless stream of apathy.

And hope.

And desperation.

That was the reason the familiar scents of Lydia and Stiles and Scott didn't change anything. The pack had come and the pack had gone, Peter had been lost in between. Nothing changed.

It happened once.

Twice.

And nothing. It changed nothing.

By the third time, Peter no longer held any hope. He was experienced on giving up at that point. He embraced the dreams because he could escape in them. He wondered if he was just waiting to die.

Sometimes the girl, Meredith, would keep him company while he explored Eichen House in his dreams. Peter didn’t know what was keeping him alive.

"The hound will come for her," she told him in one occasion, and it shocked him. The werewolf didn’t remember when. "The hellhound always comes for the banshee."

Peter wondered when a hellhound came to Beacon Hills. He didn't ask about it. He wondered what landed Lydia a place in Eichen House. He didn't ask about that either. He wondered if he would die when they meet again. He missed the preserve, and it made his heart ache more than the idea of death.

Telling dreams from reality became harder and harder. It wasn't a surprise to find himself back on his body anymore. He would catch himself trying to blink the dryness of his eyes away before his consciousness sank back to the back of his mind. It wasn’t a surprise to suddenly feel the dull ache on his muscles, the throbbing painful sensation of wolfsabane on is blood. It wasn’t a surprise the sensations were there and then they were gone again.

It was a surprise to find a blurry human shaped figure leaning over him. Peter tried to will the panic away, but nowadays his emotions were too close to everything he still had for his control to stand its ground. The werewolf missed the full moon. He was locked in his mind; it was hard to convince his body to obey. He wanted his claws and teeth. He wanted to defend himself.

Peter felt like a self-aware puppet.

He focused on blinking, he wanted to see. It wasn’t as surprising as the werewolf would’ve expected when he had some seconds of focus to see enough to realize it was Stiles. Stiles who could be so similar to him. Had he come to end this? Make sure his pack was safe from Peter?

"I guess they couldn't spare a nurse to drip a solution in your eyes," his voice seemed distant. Peter didn't want to fall asleep. Or wake up. He wanted to see this through. "You'll heal anyway."

Peter closed his eyes, and Stiles was gone. It was difficult to think clearly. It felt like too much noise and no noise at all at the same time. Like his own thoughts were encrypted and meant to confuse him. Meant to not be understood.

The werewolf didn’t feel brave enough to dare hoping.

After that, sometimes, Stiles was there. Then Stiles was gone. Or Peter was. He couldn’t tell, but he didn’t expect to wake again every time it happened.

But he did wake up.

Peter had thought Stiles was a bit more ruthless than this, he had expected pain and death. He didn’t expect Stiles by his bedside. He didn’t expect the urgent whispers Peter couldn’t quite make out. Well, he did expect the paranoia. Only the dumb ones thought themselves safe, and he knew Stiles wasn’t dumb.

Peter closed his eyes. He didn’t know what to make of this situation. He was glad there was no ultimatum to disappear in the world. He was glad there was people close, people who knew what he was and what he could do if left alone with his thoughts.

“….even if we get her out of here somehow, I doubt anyone would know how to wake her up….” Peter wondered what had been happening outside the walls of Eichen. “…Backstabbing little bitch…”

It wasn’t until Stiles showed up that Peter realized how desperate he was to get away from this place. And he couldn’t afford to hope Stiles would break him out, not if this was all he would get. Stiles by his bedside wasn’t enough. If this was all he was offering, Peter needed Stiles gone. This was cruel.

“…I figure the evil you know…”

Stiles kept coming back. Peter couldn’t tell for how long he kept visiting nor could he tell how long the teenager stayed each time. It could’ve been hours; it could’ve been seconds. Sometimes, he would bring eye drops for Peter’s eyes. Sometimes, he would help Peter drink water. Sometimes, the werewolf would wake up and Stiles was leaving and Peter had no idea what happened in the time he missed.

It was too cruel, but Peter found himself clinging to those visits.

The dreams stopped. Or maybe they had changed. He wondered if he was now only dreaming of Stiles or if it meant Stiles was anchoring him back to reality.

Stiles kept coming back. It was a cruel kindness and Peter was afraid to hope this would keep him sane without being enough to save him. He was tired, he was afraid and, if Stiles was a promise of freedom, Peter would need guarantees.

He didn’t know how long it took. He wasn’t sure how dull his senses actually were when Stiles first found him, but he knew he was slowly healing. The spider web in the corner was still there; he could make out the crack on the wall behind it. It wasn’t as painful to move his eyes and look around the room. Once, he could swear he got his claws caught on the sheet under himself. Peter could feel himself hoping; he knew he needed a plan.

Lydia’s scream was unexpected.

Although, it was loud enough to wake Peter when he didn’t even know he was asleep, at first, it was a distant muffled sound. Powerful but not quite real.

It felt like a bubble popping, and, suddenly, his thoughts seemed faster, sharper. Clearer. He could think. Peter didn’t realize how much he missed clarity; he didn’t even realize it was gone. He felt coming back from death all over again.

The pain on his body wasn’t dull anymore. The wolfsbane in his veins felt like tiny needles and broken glass. His muscles felt overstretched over his bones. Peter would kill them for this. He would rip their throats with his claws, feel their blood on his hands, and smile knowing no one would ever do this to him again. He wanted to run.

Peter would make sure everyone feared him now.

His mind felt alive and awake, but his body still refused to keep up. It was a claustrophobic sensation to feel like he was too much to be contained by his own skin.

Stiles didn’t come back after Lydia’s scream.

Peter focused on getting his limbs to obey him. He felt weak and clumsy. He wondered if the plan was to have him just die somehow or if he was forgotten even by the staff of his hellish prison. Peter wondered if he ate bits of his tongue without even noticing before it healed back. He wondered if Stiles had brought him food when he wasn’t aware. He wondered how long it had been.

Peter had questions. He would get his answers and he would kill every single person who was to blame for locking him up, for torturing him, for leaving him to die a slow and painful death. He would claw their eyes out and show their lifeless eyeballs the mangled mess the rest of their bodies would become. This was what Pete got for trying to warn the pack. This was what he got for trying to make their alpha stronger.

And Lydia screamed again and again and again. It echoed in Peter’s mind; it vibrated painfully through his thoughts. Peter needed to run. It was such an instinctive reaction he was certain he could force his body to move despite the pain, despite the lack of control.

But he couldn’t.

He had no escape plan. He had no way to get past the mountain ash barrier. He had no way of opening the gates. Peter snarled, dangerous and terrified and locked away where no one could hear it. It tied Peter's stomach in knots to think he could break free just to be stopped by a door. That or the hunger. He was sure the starvation was a way to keep him weak.

It surprised him how strongly he refused to let himself die.

Truth be told, he knew he could find a way to get through, but…that was an old belief. He was tired. What would happen if he failed? How many times would he have to start over? He wondered if Stiles gave him some sense of pack or if it was dumb luck that connected his recovery to those visits. He wondered if the screams had been for someone he knew. For Stiles, maybe. The idea made Peter inexplicably sad; he’d mourn Stiles if he got out to find him dead.

The thought made his loneliness suffocating. It was distracting when Peter tried to listen, tried to plan. He still couldn't tell the time. He couldn’t tell what was happening outside his door. He couldn’t let himself sleep out of fear, but, whenever he pushed to stay awake, he could feel himself going mad.

Slowly and surely.

Before he could improve his situation in anyway, Stiles came back. Peter didn't know how much time had passed since the last time, since Lydia awoke him. It felt like an eternity. He missed the pull of the moon. He wondered how many full moons went by in which Peter was numb.

Stiles smelt like smoke and anxiety, right outside the door to Peter's cell. The werewolf wondered if he would burn yet again. The door opened with a click, but the teenager didn’t come closer.

"The mountain ash circle is broken. You have about an hour," he said to the werewolf and left.

Peter could appreciate the assumption he didn't need help. He would rather take that as a compliment instead of indifference. He didn’t ask if Peter could escape. He didn’t offer to help beyond unlocking the door. After being sentenced to being forgotten and erased behind the walls of Eichen House, Stiles opening the door and not staying in the way felt like caring. Peter wondered if the time trapped in his head had made him insane again.

This wasn’t love nor pity nor pack. It was something Peter shouldn’t count on; something he should figure out before it came back to burn him alive like he knew Stiles would do. Not standing in the way wasn’t a kiss, it wasn’t a confession, it wasn’t a commitment; he reminded himself. Not standing in the way was Stiles taking his name out of Peter’s revenge list.

The walk out of Eichen House was filled with terror. It was hard. Peter’s muscles ached from lack of exercise. His bones felt weak and ready to give in under his weight. The idea of running into a guard, another inmate, a visitor….

…Scott…

Peter was terrified.

He had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The pack to which Peter was painfully aware he did not belong would waltz into his family vault as if it was theirs. His house had been teared down. What was even done with his apartment? He didn’t know how long it had been. Peter felt like he could collapse at any moment.

It was only because Stiles helped that Peter made his way to the teenager’s house. He already knew and Peter had nowhere to go. The werewolf couldn’t risk telling someone else. Stiles already knew. Peter’s knees almost gave out on him when he tried to run, but, now, he had a direction and he forced himself to keep walking. He was tired. And hungry. And thirsty.

He didn’t feel like a predator at all.

It surprised Peter that he got to Stiles’ house before Stiles himself returned. He wondered what happened, he wondered if Stiles was safe. There was a protective growl in the back of his throat that was uncalled for. He busied himself with food before going upstairs. He didn’t want to run into Stiles’ father, successfully breaking out of Eichen just to be sent back in by the sheriff himself would be too much.

Peter waited.

He wanted to look at the open books, find out what had required research, but he didn’t want to be caught by surprise. He couldn’t turn his back to the door or to the window and risk a very quiet someone coming in. Peter was scared. He couldn’t fall asleep waiting. He had questions Stiles would answer. He would help, and Peter would disappear somewhere by his own accord this time. He tried to stop the stream of thoughts before he lost himself on them.

The world was just beginning to slow down after the chaos. His thoughts were too loud. He needed to do something. He got up and walked to the hallway. Peter planned to wait there; he could escape from there.

As soon as he walked out of the room, Stiles came crashing on him, forcing him to step back until there was a wall behind him. The werewolf grabbed a fistful of shirt when he tried to grab skin. His claws caught nothing because his claws didn’t come out when he willed them to.

Stiles slammed Peter against the wall, way too fast and way too strong. Peter bared his teeth, human as they looked. The kid smirked, cocky and amused. An annoyance. Peter wanted to run and hide. He was tired.

"Come on. Aren’t you being a little rude after I saved your life?"

Peter arched an eyebrow, forcing the anger and the panic back down. It had been quite a long time since he had last seen the moon. He didn’t know how long, but his control wasn’t as good as it had once been and it had never been as good as it was before the fire. He refused to lose face to this kid, this traumatized teenager who thought he knew what strength was. It was funny and heartbreaking at the same time.

“Are you staying?” Stiles asked, and Peter knew he was actually asking if the older man would fight with them. Die for them. For him. He wondered if Stiles thought Peter owned him so much that he should – would – risk his life. He wondered if Stiles missed him. Stiles looked scared, too.

“I’m not exactly my old self as it is,” Peter arched an eyebrow at him, claws poking tiny holes on Stiles’ shirt where he had instinctively grabbed the other man.

“Not what I asked.”

It was a stupid question, and Peter had always thought Stiles was the smart one of that little pack of misfits.

“Stay…With you?” Peter sneered. The obvious answer was no.

Stiles answered with a mocking expression the werewolf wanted to claw out of his face. Peter snarled on Stiles’s face for that and the kiss that followed came as a complete surprise. It wasn’t loving; Stiles just pressed his mouth against Peter’s with such violence the werewolf’s lip caught on his own teeth. The kiss lasted for a second, and it was terrifying.

Yes, stay with me, it said. Help me. Peter felt broken. He never wished for Stiles to break too; he had been honest when he said he liked Stiles. But here they were, and Peter knew.

 “I suppose it’s not really saving when I just brought you out of the pan and into the fire. Are you staying?” he asked again.

He felt weak and angry. He felt powerless.

Peter wasn’t even pack. And yet, Stiles was asking him to stay, trusting him to fight, to help defend them.

Peter watched as Stiles walk back into the room.

“Yes,” he told Stiles, feeling as stupid as he knew that answer was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this!
> 
> sadly i'm without a beta again ;-; but i'll have the beta'd version up as soon as possible.


	2. breaking down

After the anxiety was gone, the weariness took over quickly. There was no denying the physical abuse Peter's body suffered to get him to safety.

Again.

Now that he had time to think it over, Peter could only deem his escape an act of madness. Or desperation. It could be said desperation was the mother of any progress and, in his case, it was true more often than it was not.

Truly, he knew his motivation for what it was. The promise of pack, weak and vague as it was, was enough to anchor him to what was left of his sanity. It wasn't enough to put the werewolf at ease but it had been enough to bring him here.

To bring him to Stiles.

And it had been enough to keep him there despite the danger and the instability of his mind and his situation.  His thoughts were racing. His thoughts held no order nor shape but there was Stiles. There had been an escape and there was no safe place but there was Stiles. He had trusted people before and had been tricked by them. Maybe this time he would not die by their hand but maybe he would and maybe Stiles had a cruel plan but maybe he didn’t and whatever that plan could be if it existed, the first step required Peter to be freed from Eichen House so Stiles said jump and Peter jumped.

His life had been a collection of bad decisions.

Trusting Stiles wasn’t one of them. It hadn’t been, not yet, not enough. It dawned on him this was the second time he found himself packless, clinging to remnants of his mind, and there was Stiles. It had ended in a fire back then and still, he trusted.

Peter was terrified.

Hours after his escape, Peter was alone in Stiles’ room. He jolted up, suddenly aware of where he was. Aware of himself. Of his body. How did he let himself fall asleep? He didn't remember falling asleep. Peter woke up in Stiles' bed, confused and scared.

There was a blank space in his mind where an explanation should’ve been and he had no when and no how and no why. He had no idea where Stiles went. Peter looked around. The door was open.

That...that was good.

The door was open. He could leave. He looked at the floor; he looked for mountain ash. There was none. He could, indeed, leave.

Peter thought he wouldn't want to stay indoors ever again. He was sure he would run and run and never look back as soon as given the chance. He would become wild. Feral. He would live in a cave, in a forest. He didn’t care. He would not go back to being chained or locked up or imprisoned in any way.

Peter rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He blinked several times to force his eyes to lubricate. He suddenly remembered telling Stiles he lived in an underground network of caves and that made him snort. His throat ached.

It was surprising to find himself comfortable while confined in Stiles' room. This was another type of prison with an unfulfilled promise hanging over his head. Peter would gladly accept the sword of Damocles if Stiles was truly offering him pack, but he would not throw himself into that sort of danger for the illusion of it. He could not, he couldn’t…he…

Peter didn't want to get involved.

He didn't want to fight because it was the right thing to be done or because people would die if he didn't. They would die if Peter didn’t fight or if Peter didn’t die for them; it didn’t matter. Peter knew death. Peter knew death would come for everyone and he knew there was no wisdom in tempting it to come sooner rather than later. He could accept he escaped death too many times to keep on counting his luck would save him.

His luck.

It sounded like mockery.

No one would call Peter – burnedandburiedandburnedagain – lucky. Peter was tired. He didn’t want to fight. He was alone and he was tired.

He wanted a pack and not death, blood and thank you, but now go back to whatever hell you clawed your way from this time, Peter.

"You're a lousy company," Stiles declared when Peter woke up again.

Peter wondered if it was the wolfsbane still coursing through his veins or if it was the crash after the adrenaline of his escape. How long had it been since the last time he ran? If he was honest, he couldn’t tell if he was tired or in pain.

Stiles kept moving from his laptop on the desk to his investigation board in the middle of the room. Peter hadn’t noticed it was there. The traces of a layout of a heist plan taking place in Eichen House were still to be found up on the board. Peter remembered Lydia’s scream too close while he was being held prisoner. Did she survive? Peter was sure she did; a little more damaged, a little more broken, but he was sure Lydia could recover from whatever terror they inflicted on her.

The board…

There was a lot that Peter recognized and there was a lot – too much – that he didn’t. Beacon Hills had never been safe but Scott was unprepared to protect them if this was the bare minimum they had on their plates. And it was the minimum because it’s never as simple as they can uncover even when you have the sheriff and a few stray hunters on your side.

He wondered how long it would take until the cops showed up to arrest Peter and drag him back to that hellhole of a mental institution. He was, after all, in the house of a man of the law. Peter didn’t see a cop in Stiles. Protect and serve shouldn’t rely that much on the attachments of the officer in questions and, if they were looking at things that way, it sounded like Stiles was looking to be a hunter in a uniform. It was uncomfortably close and that made Peter’s skin crawl and his body tensed up.

Peter had learned fairly early that hunters could be cops and doctors and teachers just like anyone else. They weren't even psychotic enough to call attention to themselves. They didn’t stand out, they weren’t odd. They were...normal.

They were just hunters before anything else.

Peter had learned and that knowledge had been passed down his family for generations because hunters had proved no one needed to be psychotic to be a killer or a torturer or a bigot and here was Stiles, a potential hunter, and a potential cop. He turned to Peter, watching the werewolf as Peter counted his breaths.

Peter dug his fingers into his thighs, trying to stay calm. Stiles just never stroke Peter as that sort of protect and serve. He didn't realize how nervous the idea made him until he had his claws out. He was wrong about this. It wasn’t hunting. It was Stiles…he seemed like a beta, helping out his pack. He wasn’t a hunter, he wasn’t a cop. He was trying to help his pack. He was Scott’s beta. It was fine. It was good to think about these things. It was good to have this sort of reminders and this was all this was.

A reminder.

Peter closed his eyes, unsure of how much control he was displaying. Stiles kept watching him until the werewolf seemed calm again. He didn’t ask, but Peter opened his eyes to find Stiles looking at him, no longer holding his pen and just standing awkwardly by the desk so he knew he had been ready to intervene if...

Peter ground his teeth. He almost had a panic attack; his control was gone.

“Are you hungry?” Stiles asked as if Peter didn’t work himself back from the verge of a panic attack.

There was a growl in his throat; he was still afraid, he couldn't remember the last time he wasn't afraid. He supposed most people would go to therapy after being burned alive, surviving, being burned again, having their throats slashed, finding a survivor of his mostly dead family, losing them again, being tortured, losing a finger, having their only relative kidnapped and slowly wasting away, having all his money stolen, being framed, having law enforcement swear to no longer care for him and being locked up against his will. He supposed most people would seek therapy after only one of those events but here he was. How could Peter actually open up to a therapist when he knew what was out there? He knew people were out to get him, the question was who or what or when and he knew that sounded paranoid.

A werewolf's sense of normalcy was not the same as that of a human. It couldn't be. They could hear more, see more, know more. They were stronger and faster. They had to hide.

If all that kept Peter safe for now was his strength, Peter didn't want to seem useless.

Peter nodded, “Famished.”

His voice still sounded alien to him. It had been a long time since Peter held a normal conversation. It had been a long time since Peter held any conversation at all.

He wondered how long he had before someone else would notice he was gone from Eichen. How long he had until someone else showed up at Stiles’ place and caught him? Stiles left the room; it sounded like it happened far away from him.

Peter lied down again and stared at the ceiling. He had been doing that for months, staring at the ceiling. He had to eat and go. Even if he chose to help Stiles. He had to go. He couldn’t risk it, he needed somewhere safe. He needed Stiles to promise to help him. He needed protection.

Peter woke up snarling at Stiles’ face with Stiles’ hand on his arm and very human nails digging into his skin. There was a burger on his lap that, from the looks of things, fell there when Stiles pulled back because Peter sat up snarling at him.

“You startled me,” Peter whispered, trying to sound apologetic.  

“I start-,” Stiles started saying and then gave up, deciding the absurdity of it was too much for him. He rolled his eyes, pressing his lips in a thin frustrated line instead.

Peter collected his food from his lap, taking the plate Stiles all but threw at the bedside table. A few moments later, the teenager came back with a bottle of water. The werewolf was thankful but he didn’t try to say so.

Not yet.

"It isn't safe here," he told Peter as if it was new information. Peter knew; nowhere hadn't been safe since Talia let the hunters burn them to the ground.

Peter swallowed and realized his throat felt raw. He reached for the bottle, waiting for Stiles to tell him Scott would be there any moment to take him back or that his father was waiting for him to bring Peter to the station.

"Beacon Hills isn't safe," Stiles stated instead.

Peter wanted to tell him Beacon Hills had never been safe but Stiles already knew that and Peter was tired.

Peter watched Stiles, ready to be kicked out. Stiles didn't trust him and Peter didn't expect his trust. Stiles wasn't an idiot. Peter was locked up and tortured for years, maybe months, maybe weeks, maybe days, but years had passed within the walls of Eichen House and the damage was done. Peter knew it, Stiles knew it and now Lydia knew it, too.

At least, she had the comfort of knowing they came for her. At least, she had a pack. At least, she had a family.

Her grandmother hadn't been so lucky. Banshees weren't pack creatures but they needed support all the same.

Peter hadn't been so lucky.

Bitterness made him stop eating. Stiles watched him.

"I doubt anyone will notice you're gone but someone will notice you're here. Not you _you_ necessarily but someone, you know? I'm not saying you have to go but you have to know so I need you to be awake long enough for me to brief you because shit is going down and you keep passing out on me like," he shrugged and gestured to the bed to indicate Peter as if the werewolf had just fallen asleep while Stiles was talking. "Did they make you narcoleptic in there?"

Peter rolled his eyes instinctively, only realizing he did so when he had to blink several times to make the ache behind his eyes go away.

"Shut up," Stiles offered before Peter's rebuttal. "You gonna help us?" Peter gave Stiles a look of disbelief. "When you recover. Look, this is a mess. The doctors, the beast, Theo. It's not going away anytime soon. "

The burger was dry and tasteless but Peter was thankful for it all the same. He let his eyes wander through Stiles' crime board again as he tried to relearn the simple skill of eating without puking like the half-starved person his body needed him to be. He heard of the Dread Doctors but he wasn't sure he wanted to get involved. Was Stiles using him? How cruel could Stiles be? Could he trust him?

The future hunter Peter saw on him made an appearance in those notes, on that board, and Peter found himself scrambling out of bed to try to get away. His stomach twisted and suddenly he was trying to not vomit on the bed. He fell to his knees. His muscles refused to cooperate. He was still aching, still healing.

Still weak.

"Peter!" Stiles sounded genuinely concerned. Peter was sure he was making a genuinely pathetic display.

It was annoying. Everything about this was annoying.

Peter needed to heal. He needed to rest, he needed to be able to save himself. He was a mess.

He sighed. Stiles left the door open for him.

Peter closed his eyes; it would be the last time the door had to be open. It was a weakness and he would _not_ leave such glaring weaknesses lying around for enemies to explore. He would _not_ risk his pack.

Peter sat on the bed, considering his options. He wouldn’t go far if he left now. He wouldn’t survive on his own, he was an omega and a weak one. If a hunter didn’t find him, there was plenty out there to get him.

He needed his strength. He needed to protect his pack. He didn’t have a pack.

He had no one.

He had Stiles. No. He had no one.

Peter lied down.

Stiles came back with a bucket and Peter realized he didn’t notice when he left this time. He moved to clean the floor, humming a song. The smell was repugnant, but it was the domesticity of it all that made Peter uncomfortable. He had nothing. He glanced at Stiles but looked away again, going back to staring at the ceiling. Stiles cleaned and Peter stared at the ceiling, listening to the humming of a song he recognized but couldn’t recall the lyrics.

Peter woke up hours later to a clean room, the song Calling Dr. Love stuck in his head and a resolve to protect whatever possibility of pack he could find in Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading it!!  
> i'm sorry it took me so long to come back to this. hopefully, now it'll be much faster o//o
> 
> the song stiles is humming and that gets stuck in peter's head is calling dr. love by kiss


	3. setting up

After the wolfsbane was gone, the anger took over quickly. There was no denying Peter had walked into a situation that had very little benefits to offer and that he had almost no tools or skills to guarantee his survival.

Again.

He had no strength, no time and no plan, and, while Peter was used to playing against all odds, he wasn’t fond of it. What Stiles was promising, if there was any promise at all, wasn’t enough. Peter wanted pack, he wanted certainty that he would get it. He wanted to belong, he wanted what was rightfully his, something that had been forcefully taken and never given back ten years ago when they burned his body and burned his mind, his family and everything he held dear. In the end, it was very simple: he wanted safety. Peter couldn’t, he wouldn’t put his life in the hands of a teenager that couldn’t take a life. He couldn’t put his life in the hands of someone who refused to understand the weight they were carrying.

Peter couldn’t be the alpha either. It was true that all power corrupted, he had put that to test, and now he knew he didn’t have that sort of strength anymore, not when he needed duct tape and glue to keep his mind held in one piece. He didn’t even have the desire for it; he couldn’t be alpha if he couldn’t defend his pack and, right now, he could barely defend himself and Stiles.

But they were all works in progress and his life had been a collection of bad decisions.

He wanted Stiles to tell him there would be pack at the end of this – no tricks, no lies, no empty promises and no leaving Peter behind to be dragged back to the hellhole he just escaped – because if Peter was pack, then Stiles could have anything he could see in the werewolf and that he wanted. Stiles could just take it and Peter would let him. He’d add to the numbers, he would help with the plans, he’d do it. But they had a long conversation ahead of them still to be had because a kiss wasn’t enough to seal the deal, unless…unless Peter didn’t know.

There was so much missing.

And Peter didn’t know.

All the information was lacking in the details. All plans would take time he didn’t have and all solutions would require plans he couldn’t work out – his or theirs, it didn’t matter. All attacks demanded defenses he couldn’t build because there was no strength to rely on. All defenses were gone. All allies were dead or on the run and no one could be bought because Peter had no money.

Peter had Stiles and Stiles had one kiss. Their long conversation kept being postponed because all hell was breaking loose but they couldn’t go far on implied promises alone. Peter had to heal and soon the healing would be done.

Peter took a deep breath and flexed his fingers a couple times, making a fist and letting go. His muscles were tense; they got used to immobility. He sat up. He had no idea how long it had been since he ran out of Eichen House but it was safe to assume whoever knew he was there, now knew he was not there anymore and someone was probably aware that someone was recovering at the Stilinski’s. They were being watched. It would be easy to figure out Peter was under Stiles’ protection and it would be easy to figure out that it was not a protection sanctioned by True Alpha Scott McCall. Soon safety would be gone, too, if there was ever any safety at all.

Peter needed strength.

His palms felt clammy and the collar of his shirt was still damp with a fever he didn’t remember sweating out in his sleep. It smelt disgusting. He wanted a shower and clean clothes. The room smelled like sickness since the werewolf arrived. Peter closed his eyes and tried to smell past scents clinging to his own body. He tried to find Stiles in the room. It still took time but he did it. It was a skill he had been polishing while his body recovered. He looked for other scents, he looked for the teenager watching the house from across the street.

This one was named Corey.

Peter hated being left to run circles in the dark so he acquainted himself with all the information available to him.  The research in Stiles' room, the dots he could connect from the memories he still had and the people watching the house. It was naivety and smugness that made the teenagers across the street confident enough in their hiding skills. That and probably the fact that Peter had been too weak to notice the first time someone stopped by. It had been someone else at the time, but he knew them all now.

This was a threat.

He was still weak but his senses and his control were coming back. Soon, he would chase them one by one and show them what a threat looked like.

Peter was angry. This was a threat and Peter would not have it.

Peter would not be caught again. He would not be unprepared, he would not be trapped and executed. His control needed a little work, his strength needed a lot of work and he needed too much information. He still needed a pack. He couldn't get distracted; he had a goal. That cocky teenager was a threat and Peter was very mindful of threats these days so he watched them, too. He gathered information because that little shit seemed particularly interested in the same person Peter had in mind for his pack and that was a bigger threat that direct harm. The other ones…Peter could tell some of them had doubts.

This was still a threat.

Peter could be hunted but he would hunt each and every one of those who hurt and killed off his pack. Stiles wasn't his pack.

But he could be.

Peter needed to anchor himself. Peter needed to find balance before the full moon. He was scared, things were happening too fast and too slowly and nothing was happening. They were watching, waiting. He couldn't take the waiting.

Waiting to be killed 

Waiting to be taken back to Eichen House.

Waiting for Scott to find out.

Waiting to lose all control because there was no point in dressing it up in a desperate attempt to deny it: he was an omega.

Peter reached for the doorknob. He should go outside; he should build his endurance back up, run, train, do something. Kill them. His hand trembled. He closed his eyes and just focused on his senses instead. He had been doing that a lot lately, sharpening his senses when he couldn't sharpen himself in other ways. He had been using Theo, Corey – Corey was his favorite – as target practice, learning about them from this distance just by paying attention to the sounds and scents. Peter could watch, too, and he had played this game for longer. If he didn't go insane, he would win.

Except the waiting was driving him crazy where the wolfsbane and Valack hadn’t. He should take a shower and stop.

He had better senses, he knew how to use them to their advantage and he could show Stiles he was useful. He was useful so he should be kept around, he should be pack, he could help, he could keep them safe even when he was weak. By the time Stiles would be back, they would be gone. It had been like that for days.

Only days?

Peter paced around the room and thought about what he learned. When he couldn't take it anymore, he explored the house. He got familiar with the Stilinski's house in the time he had been here. The McCall pack had too much to deal with. The Doctors were already more than enough but they sent in a spy and they had been unprepared to deal with that sort of cunning. This had been something Peter had learned by talking to Stiles; he learned about Theo before Theo showed up. There was resentment there, there would always be. This was Talia all over again. This was the reason Peter should ditch them. This was a threat. Peter had no reason to stay, no reason to fight for them, no reason to get involved. He was already fucked and it would only get worse.

Learning about Theo was forcing Talia back from the grave. It was worse.

A reminder.

They were going to burn them all to the ground. No one was going to listen. Talia didn't, Scott wouldn't and Peter would not let that happen!

Peter started to feel cooped up, trapped inside the house. It happened everyday, he got used to it. He wanted to leave and there was nothing stopping him. There was nothing binding him to the house, to the room. Nothing but his weakness.

He was afraid. He got used to it.

Slowly his control came back. Slowly his mind seemed to be piecing itself together. Slowly he could see a way out of it, a way to survive. He needed strength and to get strength he needed to leave but he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Peter paced up and down the hallway. It took him time to move the pacing closer to the front door every time the thought occurred to him. This wasn’t new. There were no shackles and wolfsbane, no mountain ash and wounds, but he was weak.

Peter realized a lot of his lack of control came from being poisoned, constantly, and that he was slowly but surely coming back. But he was weak.

And alone.

And everyone knew a weak omega was a dead omega. If he walked out of that door, he was a dead man walking. He was afraid. He had seen things when he looked into Valack's eye and he didn't want them to come true.

He should shower and stay. He should talk to Stiles.

Peter stayed still, considering his options, listening to the sounds outside the house. Nothing ever changed until it did.

Someone was outside.

There was no time, there was no plan and his control was a ruse. Peter was a walking lie and he wanted to break this place and tear things apart because it was either breaking things or breaking down and it was idiotic to let the world see him that vulnerable.

Stiles had been gone since last night. The Sheriff had been gone, too. Peter was supposed to be helping and there was nothing he could do; Stiles would realize it soon and then Peter would find himself back in Eichen. He had no time and no plan, he better start moving.

Stiles had touched Peter's hand and Peter flinched, unused to anything gentle. They still had to talk.

And someone was outside. It was a matter of time until something happened, but Peter thought he had more time. This was new, anyway.

He needed to stay calm. He had to stay calm, he would stay calm. Corey. He had to find Corey because he needed to know if they made a move. As Peter’s mind cleared, he found himself pulled back to the investigation board.

They had been hunted by every prey and predator and they had been experimented on but the Dread Doctors had been an urban legend for as long as he could remember. A scary story he brushed off as inspired by the plague doctors and a mix of comic books and steampunk. He could see that coming to life but he didn't expect someone to need the gadgets and the outfit. He didn't expect someone to design it for a purpose nor to have a purpose at all, he didn't expect someone to live through centuries of hellish experimenting just to end up in Beacon Hills where they found the way to perfect their methods. No, actually Peter expected it because he believed humans were terrible creatures and didn't someone say that if you didn't end up down some river with a knife on your back it's just a matter of the price not being high enough?

Someone had sold him out. Stiles had been gone, and, truly, he had never offered pack. Did they use him?

Peter stalked to the kitchen, the shifter outside was waiting.

The issue here wasn't that the doctors were back to Beacon Hills but what had they done when they were here for the first time. The pack had been too enveloped in chaos to see it but Peter could still see the forest for the trees. They had moles, there was no time and anyone could be working for them. They had sleeping agents since who knows how long. Maybe it was Peter himself. Who was using him? Did they take something? Did they take his memories, too?

It wasn’t a werewolf standing outside.

The issue wasn’t the pack of chimeras pretending to be scary and evil but what they knew and what they could achieve with that information. If only they would catch someone, if only they could have access to what they saw.

It wasn’t a chimera either.

Peter looked through the window, but they were smart enough to stand out of view. He paused and listened. There was only one. They came for him, they waited. They didn’t want to leave traces inside the house.

Peter was being hunted.

He opened the door and faced the woman standing outside, smirking as if he had known all along what he figured out only seconds ago.

“The Desert Wolf,” he said slowly, dragging out the suspense of her alias.

“Corinne,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. Neither of them moved until Peter leaned against the doorway and offered her an apologetic side smile that was only there for a second. “Let’s not pretend you don’t know.”

“It’s not like we parted ways on amicable terms; you understand my hesitation,” he said, unwilling to admit he himself didn’t know. He had no real memories of this woman and wasn’t this lovely, he was sure he had to thank Talia for this but this wasn’t the moment to bring up his lack of memory. He didn’t need to know her personally to know who she was and to know she was dangerous. “Let’s not pretend _you_ don’t know.”

They waited. Peter’s patience was running thin, but so was hers; they weren’t made for this game.

“So, you’re into teenagers now,” she snorted, watching him with disdain and more confidence than Peter had.

She smelled of gunpowder and Peter didn’t understand. Did she come here to hunt him? Was it meant to scare him or did she want the hunter experience? Did…he take an Argent to bed? The woman was angry and that was fine, but, by the looks of it, they all had their Kates and this one was Peter’s.

He let her assume she was right, it was better than confirm her suspicions by denying them.

“I’m not sure how anything I do now concerns you.”

“I’m sure that concerns the law.”

“A detail.”

He could smell the anger coming from Corinne, he could almost touch it, and it was so alike his own but so different. He knew the memory was supposed to be there, he knew it was missing and he knew where to find it: Talia’s claws. It was frustrating.

He wondered if she was here for their daughter and if killing him would be a happy bonus.

“Somehow, I think the Sheriff would disagree.”

“Somehow, I think you wouldn’t be all that interested in meeting the Sheriff.”

Peter didn’t need to remember this woman to be able to tell that she didn’t belong with law enforcement. From the way she carried herself to her scent, there was nothing about her that talked about being in sync with the law. He would bet money – and nowadays he didn’t have much to spare – that her eyes were blue because she took an innocent’s life.

She was just like him; he knew the anger.

Peter waited.

He expected Corinne to lunge herself at him, all claws and fangs, going for his jugular because he annoyed her, because he did something he could no longer remember, because he was from the Hales who wronged her, because he was there, because he had to pay but she did nothing. She was nothing like him but so alike. She watched him with hatred in her eyes and her hand gripping her gun for too long for Peter to be comfortable in his knowledge of how fights were supposed to start.

“You don’t care,” she stated and Peter had no idea, no memory at all, about what he was supposed to care about, but he refused to die because of it and he let her know by flashing his eyes and roaring at her. “That’s more like it.”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

Peter didn’t want to fight her but he couldn’t just close the door and hope she would leave; he had to force her to go. The effort he was making was desperate enough to be honest - it was too vulnerable to be anything else other than honest - and he hoped Stiles could see it. He stepped out in the backyard’s porch, considering the possibilities. She didn’t want to shoot him, not yet; it would leave evidence in a cop’s house.

This was a threat he’d have to do something about and Peter hated having his hand forced.

He growled, low in his chest and ran at her, expecting the bullets. Maybe he was still half-mad, maybe he didn’t expect an actual fight. Her eyes flashed bright blue and he remembered Malia wasn’t supposed to exist. There was something wrong with her eyes.

Peter threw himself at her with all the anger he had been bottling up and that was not directed at Corinne but target practice was target practice and if he was to pay for crimes he didn’t remember, she could as well pay for crimes she didn’t commit. He clawed at her, trying to tear muscle away from bones and snarled at her whenever she tried to do the same. They fell, trying to break and rip and make Talia pay from beyond the grave.

Peter lost sight of the gun. He was unprepared and she reminded him of it by shooting him when he tried to pin her down.

“I was wondering if you came to invite me to dance just to not dance with me at all,” he mocked and tried to reach her throat with his claws but she pushed her own claws into his ribs to force him away. It hurt more than it should have and Peter moved away, trying to escape from her grip, too.

It was a moment of distraction and she was gone. Peter looked around, bewildered and annoyed. He ran inside, feeling like he fell into a trap.

Nothing.

He went back downstairs, dripping blood from his right side.

“We should do this again,” he told the empty backyard and waited, listening.

There was nothing.

He’d have to do something; the waiting game had put a target on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading up until here!!  
> i hope there aren't weird mistakes or anything that made reading it a chore
> 
> the saying peter tries to recall is actually a quote by jay mcinerney from a book called "story of my life":  
> “It's like, you can't trust anybody, and if somebody you know doesn't fuck you over it's just because the price of selling you down the river was never high enough.”


	4. calming down

After the shock was gone, the paranoia came quickly. There was no escaping the dooming knowledge Peter had walked right into a trap and he didn’t know what they took from him.

Again.

Peter paced around the living room for an unknown amount of time, resisting the urge to throw things only because the ugly decorations weren’t his to break and he had been working on his control. No, that was a lie. He didn’t want anyone to listen and he didn’t know what they gained from his fight with Corinne but he sure as hell knew the chimera pack got something out of this whole mess. They probably orchestrated it; they played him. They let Peter think he was in control, they let Peter think he was learning about them and they hid their best player, waiting to catch Peter by surprise.

Peter growled at the coach, angry and with nothing to take his anger on. He showed his fangs and flashed his eyes, claws out and ready to attack. It was a pathetic display of power to intimidate the furniture.

Peter was a pathetic excuse of the werewolf he had been. Peter needed Stiles; he needed to sort out his situation quickly.

His body was aching but the bullet wound irradiated a sort of pain he hadn’t felt in a while. He hadn’t been hunted in a while. He couldn’t remember the last time he was shot by a regular bullet.

He had to do something about the bullet. Fuck. The blood; he had been dripping blood everywhere. Stiles would be pissed.

The blood.

The blood was proof Peter had been an idiot who fell into a trap. Peter had been stupid enough to not question why it was so easy. Their motivations were so clear, they had been planning something but Peter trusted his skills to keep track of a teenage pack because he didn’t think they would gamble so high as to expose themselves that much. Stiles warned him, he told him Theo was good at playing tricks but Peter didn’t listen; Peter had always been better.

Peter felt stupid. This wasn’t him. He was better than this and he needed to get back in shape. He was weak and stupid and Corinne had that information now. They had tested him.

It was good. It was a good thing they tested him because they would think Peter was too weak to be counted and Peter would kill them all. Peter would turn this around; he was good at this.

It was fine, it was fine it was fine it was fine. It was fine.

It was salvageable.

Peter walked upstairs. His right side was throbbing and trying to heal with the bullet still inside the wound. It was going to be messy to take the bullet out, so it was better that he did it in the bathroom. It wasn’t the pain that pissed Peter off so much, but the fact they made a move. They knew he was here. Peter would have to leave. Peter would be forced to come up with a plan.

Where the hell was Stiles?

Was he testing him, too? If Corinne wasn’t working with the chimeras, it was Stiles who sent her. Either to kill or to test him. Either way, Peter was pissed. He had no right to leave him in the dark; that was no way to deal with pack, he had no right to leave his left hand out of the loop when the danger scale was off the charts. What was he thinking!?

Peter focused on his breathing. What was he thinking? Stiles wasn’t pack; not his, not yet. It was more likely the chimeras who set a trap to test whoever it was that Stiles was hiding. No, they had known it was Peter and that’s why they sent Corinne.

Scott was in over his head. Peter could help but Scott wouldn’t listen. Stiles; it all came back to Stiles.

He undressed to his underwear and sat on the edge of the bathtub to claw out the bullet. It was painful but the pain was an old acquaintance when you burn halfway to death a couple times. He could survive digging into his own flesh to take out a bullet. He could survive many things but it was hard not to howl.

It was an instinct. It was an instinct and he had been shot, he was in pain. He wanted that comfort. Peter wanted to howl for pack and had them howl back, he wanted to know that they were there, that they were coming for him, he wasn’t alone.

That he was safe. That he would be safe.

Peter pressed his lips tight and kept quiet.

He dropped the bullet on the floor when he got it out, sweating, bleeding and tired. Peter had a headache to go with the throbbing pain on his side. He would heal, he was healing.

He heard the Jeep and the door. The werewolf was on his feet before he knew it because he was very much aware of who was out there. He listened as he slowly crept out of the bathroom, as silent as he could be despite the fact that he was only listening to one heartbeat. Peter wasn’t so sure he could trust Stiles, not when he safely walked back into the house and Corinne had paid them a visit. Someone set a trap for Peter and he was still bleeding from it. He was so weak that it was shameful.

He caught Stiles in the hallway and Stiles seemed startled enough to almost jump back.

“Shit! What the –”, he looked down Peter’s naked chest and caught sight of the healing wound and dried blood. He looked at the trail of blood down the side of Peter’s underwear and jerked his head back to look at the floor, looking for the evidence that Peter had walked in with that wound. Peter sneered because he understood that, even if Stiles had just passed by it, whatever caused the wound, the thought that it was outside was still better than the idea that something was inside the house, with them, waiting to do worse. “What the hell is that?” he demanded.

Peter deflated slightly, dropping his shoulders and relaxing his hands. As soon as the werewolf realized he did it, he made fists with his hands again, ready to get his claws out, if he needed. He had started to trust Stiles too much.

“Peter,” Stiles called in a stern tone. “You’re bleeding. I want to know how it happened.” Peter took a deep breath, trying to not relax again, but Stiles stepped closer and leaned down to look at the wound without asking for permission to do so and it was easy to stay tense.

“I got shot,” Peter decided to say, looking away from Stiles. He was ashamed. He was weak, he fell into a trap, he let Stiles down. This place wasn’t safe anymore and it was his fault. “I met an old acquaintance of mine. As you can guess, it was unpleasant and I’d love a shower now.”

Peter forced himself to look at Stiles, arching an eyebrow at him in defiance and offering a bored look to go with it. He couldn’t help feeling the nauseating wave of shame just by looking at Stiles and, not for the first time, he was glad Stiles was not a werewolf or else he would have smelled Peter’s disgrace. He felt sick.

Peter stepped back and turned around to retreat into the bathroom but Stiles followed him. Clearly, to Stiles, they weren’t done with this and Peter hadn’t expected them to be, but he needed the excuse to move away.

“Who,” Stiles demanded to know.

Peter didn’t answer.

He also didn’t bother closing the door of the bathroom, before he finished undressing and stepped into the bathtub.

Peter didn’t feel inclined to answer because he was sure Stiles had already connected the dots, he was sure there were theories in Stiles’ mind and being shot left Peter in a terrible mood so Stiles hold on him was wavering. He’d rather know who Stiles’ would blame for this.

Stiles stopped by the door. Peter didn’t know if he was embarrassed or not by Peter’s naked body, but Peter had been raised among myths of full wolf shifts and when you become a four-legged animal, you don’t carry clothes with you. He had been raised to accept that, at some point, you’d transform from a wolf into a naked human and maybe you’d have to run home like that so why should he be bothered now. Stiles could leave if it bothered him.

The werewolf switched the shower on and winced when the water hit the still healing wound. It ached. Peter didn’t close the curtains and Stiles didn’t leave.

“I want all the information you have,” he told Stiles. “If you want any help from me.”

Stiles stayed silent so Peter leaned back, to look at him without any of the curtains on the way. Stiles was looking at the bloody trail Peter left earlier but he nodded when he noticed himself being watched. He moved closer and picked up the bullet.

“I want pack,” Peter added.

Stiles looked away from the bullet and held Peter’s gaze.

“I’m not the alpha,” Stiles said.

“I know.”

They both stayed silent for a few seconds.

“Let’s talk after you finish your shower,” Stiles told him before he left the bathroom, closing the door behind himself and taking the bullet with him.

It took Peter several minutes to relax enough under the stream of warm water before he picked the soap to try and wash off the blood. He had to pick off little bits of dried blood that stuck to the hair of his thigh but the wound was healing like it should; it had just been a normal bullet. Corinne wanted a fight to see how weak he was and now she knew. She knew she could kill him, she knew he didn’t see the gun, she knew he wasn’t the same. She had her memories of him and Peter was not the same young werewolf she remembered; Peter had nothing at all to compare her to because he couldn’t remember if he ever even fought her before.

He sniffed the soap bar. Peter hated the smell of the soap the Stilinskis bought but it was better than anything they offered at Eichen House so he would take it with a smile. Corinne had to be working with the chimeras. They wanted to test him and now they thought he was too weak to be a threat. They would probably stop the surveillance on the house now that they had this information so Peter needed to be strong enough to kill Corinne on his own. Peter needed a plan. He needed an Alpha.

Peter needed so much he didn’t have.

He wanted to punch the wall. He let out a frustrated breath and washed his hair instead. Stiles was waiting.

By the time Peter was back to the bedroom, Stiles had put the bullet into a small evidence bag and taped it to the investigation board with red tape, connecting it by a thread to a picture of dead bodies. He knew; he had known all along and he left Peter in the dark because Peter wasn’t pack. That was the bitter truth and there it was, in red tape and thread.

A reminder.

“You knew,” Peter accused, walking to the small pile of clothes Stiles had had the kindness of retrieving for him from Derek’s place. At the time, the werewolf had asked no questions but now he felt he needed to know why Stiles went there, to begin with. He didn’t like how things were shaping up. He didn’t know if he could trust Stiles. He needed answers.

Peter’s life had been a collection of bad decisions and here he was, again. Trusting.

“I thought it was going to,” Stiles shrugged. “Overwhelm you.”

“Bullshit.”

Stiles held Peter’s stare, defying him. There was no fear in his eyes and Peter felt compelled to put some in there but he wanted pack and he wanted Stiles and he knew he was acting on an instinct to fight anything that made him feel weak, and Stiles made him feel weak.

“It’s about Malia, alright? This is her deal and you’d have meddled with it.”

“I’d say that it’s very much my deal when someone comes up to me with the intent to shoot me and, likely, to kill me,” Peter snarled through his teeth, trying to find calmness and balance when there was hardly anything of that sort left in his mind.

Peter could feel his claws itching to come out and he wanted to rip something apart, he needed to show the world he was not as weak as that fight made him feel. He wanted to growl at Stiles and make him understand that he couldn’t force Peter to just step aside and wait for things to be over. Not anymore.

Stiles walked to him and grabbed Peter’s hands, forcing them to be kept into fists. He kept his eyes on Peter’s and Peter couldn’t help but snarl at him.

“You’re not my alpha,” he reminded Stiles of what he said in the bathroom, but let him hold his fists.

“And I won’t keep you from interfering,” Stiles said. “From what Malia found out, I think the Desert Wolf’s working with Theo,” Peter nodded, agreeing with that statement. “She wants Malia dead.”

“You care about Malia.”

It was another thing that Talia had stolen from him. Peter could’ve had a family but now the memories were gone and it was too late to begin.

“And you don’t.”

Peter nodded. He didn’t try to explain. He didn’t say he tried to.

“I care about what you think,” he said. “I like you, Stiles.”

Stiles watched him for a few seconds and then started laughing, letting go of Peter’s fists. Peter wanted to say so much more. He wanted to tell him that Stiles saved him and kept him sane, that he wanted Stiles as pack, that he wanted to prove to him that he wasn’t weak, that he was thankful for being saved, that he would not fall into another trap, that he would deal with Corinne, that he would save Malia for him, that he would deal with anything that they’d need to be dealing with if that was enough for Stiles to keep Peter around. He wanted to ask for pack again.

Peter realized he was scared.

He laughed, too, instead of saying anything. He wondered if he was still half mad.

“Cheesy,” Stiles said, breathlessly. “I can’t promise you pack. Scott-”

“I’m not asking about Scott,” Peter interrupted him. “You. You as pack,” Peter clarified because he needed Stiles and he needed Stiles to know there was no plan. He needed Stiles to not send him back. He needed to not go back. He needed to stay, he needed safety and he needed to not be an omega, he needed to be free from Eichen and if Stiles thought Peter was trying to be the Alpha, Peter was doomed. He needed Stiles even if Peter was weak and scared right now.

“Huh,” Stiles looked at Peter, looking for something that explained what he was planning, or, maybe, that promised that it would not be the same madness of all the other plans. “I’ll think about it.”

It wasn’t enough, but Peter nodded anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this!!
> 
> this was a difficult chapter to write because it was that transition moment in which peter decides he has to act even if he's not ready for it and that he has to push for his relationship with stiles be it whatever it is so it was a weird mind place to get to write it because he wasn't ready. hopefully that comes through in the writing


	5. taking down

After the frustration was gone, the defiance came quickly. There was no denying that Peter would have to prove himself in Stiles' eyes if he wanted to become pack; he would have to prove he was worth it, that he was sane.

Again.

Peter remembered all too well the compromise to only punish those who were truly guilty in the murder of his family. He remembered Stiles' accusing eyes in that empty park garage where a silent promise was made to keep his best friend safe and Peter had tried, he never used his claws nor his teeth, he had really tried and, in the end, it didn’t matter because a slap in the hand and a punch in the face looked the same to Stiles’ accusing eyes. He never tried to rip Scott apart. He kept his end of the deal even as he burned, even as he had to push Scott to the breaking point for the safety of the pack because he would not let them all be burned to death again, he had never used his claws on Scott and he should’ve, he could’ve and Stiles should’ve seen that he didn’t. Peter had never tried to rip him apart like he could’ve done, like he did to his enemies, like he did to those who hurt them, like the Mute…he enjoyed himself getting revenge for himself, for Derek. He had no reason to stop if Scott was a threat, but Scott wasn’t and Peter wasn’t after him.

He was not one for senseless murder nor pointless broken promises. Peter made a deal with Stiles to keep Scott’s life and he had no reason so far to betray that, why would he? Stiles should be smart enough to know that, but he wasn’t and he couldn’t see it. Just because Peter wouldn’t hurt him, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t lie about it. He never promised to be truthful about his intentions, who would do such a stupid thing after all? He gave Stiles his word and, yet, somehow Stiles failed to see the effort to be true to that promise and Peter burned for that, Peter was tortured for that.

His life had been a collection of bad decisions.

He had chosen Stiles and refused to let go and now he was alone, still waiting for Stiles.

Peter was suddenly angry. He was enduring physical and mental trials and he had no idea why. This wasn’t fair! He had a pack, he had a family and it was taken from him and now he kept on being tested by a teenager who insisted he was evil or murderous or… Peter got up from his place in Stiles’ bed and watched the investigation board for some time until it became an annoyance. He wanted Stiles. Was he attracted to him?

No. Maybe. The kiss hadn’t been unpleasant but Peter felt used. What was this? He wondered if this was what being packless and sane felt like. Omega.  He had never experienced being an Omega while being of sound mind. Was he? Perhaps this was what going slowly insane felt like.

Peter had decided Stiles would make a good Alpha; it was too bad he wasn’t a werewolf. He would never be, he didn’t want to be. It was fascinating. He wasn’t afraid and, still, he didn’t want the gift that was the bite. Peter didn’t know what he wanted from Stiles but it was something. He wanted pack, yes, but he wasn’t sure how he expected Stiles to do something about it. What sort of compromise did he expect? Scott would never accept him. He shouldn’t, Peter didn’t want him to.

It was all about Stiles.

They would burn if it wasn’t about Stiles because Scott would never listen. Not even Talia listened; Talia made them sheep. Talia never had the Dread Doctors at her door. Scott made them sheep, too, and Scott set out a welcome doormat for the worst horrors out there and they would burn for that.

Again.

Peter was sane enough to see it for what it was. Stiles knew what an asset Peter could be, he knew Peter could help kept Malia’s hands clean. He knew how heavy a burden it was to carry a life because he had taken a life, too. What was the name of Scott’s hunter lover? Anyway, Peter wouldn’t point it out that it was too late for Malia to get back her golden eyes, but he could appreciate the kindness of the gesture. There was no reason to make a bad thing worse and Stiles cared for her enough to try it.

Peter felt sick.

His eyes wandered from the evidence on the Desert Wolf to his own mugshot on the board, right above Derek’s. Peter would not burn for Scott. He should’ve told Stiles exactly that, he should’ve been clear. He didn’t mind the blood on his hands, he didn’t mind clearing out the way and adding to the pile of dead bodies behind Scott’s path while lying through his teeth and saying it was fine and safe. They needed a path to walk through and Peter could help with that but he would not burn for Scott.

Was this really about Malia? Was Stiles trying to keep her from killing because of Scott? Or was it because of himself? Truth be told, whatever the answer, they needed everyone to focus on La Bête and Corinne was a distraction they couldn’t afford so Stiles was taking care of the problem by getting Peter involved.

He sighed and sat on the bed. Stiles was still asleep, unaware of Peter’s anxieties. The werewolf reached out and touched his shoulder, shaking him a bit, just enough to wake him up. He felt a pressuring urge to tell him everything.

Stiles blinked sleepily. He looked at Peter, then looked around the room and back at the werewolf when realized no one else was there.

“What,” Stiles demanded, annoyed and tired.

The words felt trapped in Peter’s throat. He let out a small gasp instead of the demand he had in mind. Stiles stared at him for a couple seconds and rolled over to go back to sleep. Peter tried again, hoping for coherence.

“I will…not burn for Scott and his pack,” Peter told Stiles’ back after what felt like an eternity.

He felt ashamed and selfish. He felt like he had no right to set such boundaries. He felt like there was a knot in his chest and like each breath he took tugged at it and made it tighter.

Stiles stayed silent for some time. Peter wondered if he even heard him until he finally spoke without turning to face the werewolf.

“You won’t,” Stiles agreed and paused before adding. “You won’t have to burn for me either.”

A shiver ran down Peter’s body and he nodded. He waited for more but that was all Stiles had to say.

Peter barely slept for the rest of the night, reassuring himself with Stiles’ words, telling himself that they had meaning, that they were a promise that would be kept. He wanted Stiles to be his pack and help him mend himself again. He wondered if Stiles could seal this promise with a kiss. He wondered if he should ask and wasn’t that hilarious? Even with the years he lost, he was far too old to be playing coy.

And he had no right to ask anything of Stiles before he showed himself worthy of being kept around. He needed to deal with Corinne.

Morning took its time to come but Stiles got up before sunrise because Scott called. It made it easier for them to avoid their late-night conversation – there was no time and Peter was thankful for that – because something was roaring loud enough to scare most of the animals in the preserve. If he was honest, Peter would admit it scared him. The sound was loud enough that he heard it before the warning call and he was sure that, by now, the good citizens of Beacon Hills would have to be playing denial ostriches to be able to not notice that something was going on. Peter wondered how they would deal with a resurrected beast when they had no weapons and barely any plan. 

“Stiles,” Peter followed him downstairs when Stiles hurried out, still getting dressed. “You don’t heal.”

Stiles stopped by the door and turned around to give him a look full of judgment.

“Shouldn’t I have died when an evil spirit cut my stomach open to let out some evil flies of evil?”

Peter watched him carefully, measuring his words because he knew Stiles had secrets, too, and he knew some of those were wrapped in barbed wire. He wanted Stiles; was he going crazy? Was it desperation? He rolled his eyes, hoping it was enough of a deception.

“I suppose that if you’re going out to war without a care in the world, you might as well kiss the lady in the castle goodbye since I’m being left behind to sew your banners and see that the food is made,” he deadpanned.

Stiles snorted and hesitated for a moment. His phone buzzed. “Don’t eat my father’s food,” he said, then took three quick steps towards Peter that made the werewolf tense up for a moment and pressed his lips to Peter’s in a chaste kiss. “If I die, sing songs saying I died bravely,” he added and ran out of the door while answering the phone to reassure Scott he was on his way.

Peter was dumbfounded. He wondered if he was that transparent. Was he being played? Was it a bribe?

A reminder.

Peter had a part to play in all this.

He went back upstairs to try to find some clothes he could wear outside and when barely anything that Stiles had brought to him was to his taste, he came down to the conclusion he would be forced to go shopping or go looking for his own clothes. He’d have to go outside. He'd have to face how long it had been; he'd have to accept whatever way people treated him. The anxiety came as a strange feeling because he’d have enjoyed most of the opportunity if he felt confident enough to venture outside without losing control. As it was, Peter didn’t want to admit but the idea of leaving the safety of Stiles’ house was stressful. He hated the thought of being trapped, he despised the idea of losing his freedom yet again, being locked up in his mind and letting his body waste away, but here he was…here he felt safe. No one left him here to rot. No one threw him away here. He could leave at any moment, but…he didn’t have to. No one was forcing him to leave, no one was rejecting him, no one was subtly suggesting that he didn’t belong and that was…

It was rare.

Peter was afraid of losing it as soon as the door closed behind himself. He was afraid of losing it and never finding it again.

So, he tried it slowly. Because he had to.

He stood on the backyard porch and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He tried to calm his mind; there was no imminent threat that he could locate. There was nothing waiting outside to attack him, there was nothing hunting or, at least, not right now, and that was a big difference because he knew he wouldn't be safe forever. His heart was racing. He took another deep breath, focusing on it.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He opened his eyes. The day was too bright and it hurt. The air was too heavy on his lungs. Peter wondered if he had been poisoned and didn’t notice it. No, he found nothing; no wolfsbane, no mountain ash. There was nothing. He was calling attention to himself, standing there, outside of the Stilinski's house trying to breathe and see.

It was just a regular day. Peter wasn't himself, he should act calm. He thought back to his first full moon after the coma. The air had been heavy with ashes and smoke back then. It was something else now, something worse.

It didn't matter.

Peter caught himself breathing too fast for his liking and he closed his eyes, focusing on calming down. He paid attention to his surroundings, to the sounds and scents and tried to tell himself he was safe. He would not burn. He would not.

Peter wasn't ready to learn if he had been left behind a second time. He couldn't bring himself to face Derek or whatever Derek left behind before fleeing. He couldn't go back for his things, he couldn't deal with what he would learn. It was Laura all over again. They left him and he was family. He needed his pack and they were burning or...

They ran without him.

Peter breathed out. It was fine. He could get a new outfit, he was fairly sure he had enough money stashed at the vault that could make that easy. It was fine. He was fine. He went back inside. There was a car outside so he looked for car keys. He was fine, he wasn’t burning, he was safe.

It had been quite some time since the last time he drove. He wondered if the car had been Lydia’s; it smelt of makeup and distress. Lydia always knew how to lie, it was a skill Peter appreciated. He also knew how to lie, he knew when it was needed. This was a strength he didn’t lose.

These days, Beacon Hills smelled of blood and mountain ash more than it used to. It had also always smelled of gunpowder – there were hunters, there were always been hunters and there would always be hunters, they would never give up, they would never stop coming after them and Peter knew how to recognize the that scent, he knew to pay attention because the Argents dealt with weapons and gunpowder was always a dangerous sign – but the mountain ash was new and the blood had always been faint, restricted to the woods, restricted to crime scenes, isolated, controlled. Beacon Hills had been changing.

After gathering everything he needed and finding the right store, Peter stayed in the car for fifteen minutes before he was confident he was ready. He refused to panic. He refused to show people he was weak and vulnerable and scared. It took him fifteen minutes to talk himself into leaving the safety of the car and the car didn’t even offer enough safety that he wanted to stay inside of it.  If he was honest with himself – which he wasn’t inclined to be – there were levels of safety and having left the house, Peter had decided the car was the safest place. He would not die in his car and he would not die buying clothes. He needed clothes if was to deal with Corinne or, well, anyone. Peter couldn’t picture himself walking around town in old clothes, being a predator who looked two seconds away from a panic attack or a good cry.

Fake it. Fake it. Fake it. It didn’t matter how he felt, he couldn’t run. It didn’t matter how much his body ached or how the fire felt against his skin, he needed to fight. It didn’t matter the pain, he needed to pretend, he needed to survive. He needed to act calm and collected, he didn’t have time to mourn. He didn’t have time to scream and rage, he couldn’t cry in his bed at night when someone could hear it, he couldn’t show weakness, he couldn’t say he didn’t know, it was ridiculous, it was a weakness that was going to put him back on the ground under the charred remains of what used to be his beloved home so he better get out of that car and into that store so he could fake his way into wellness and become a coldblooded killer.

Peter slammed the door behind himself and walked into the store as if he was dressed for the occasion. He spent almost all the money he had stashed away behind containers and moldy teas in the vault – for an emergency – but it was needed. The person Stiles was nursing back to health and the person that fought with the McCall pack were hardly the same but it was needed that they became one. He wondered if Derek thought he was completely insane now. He wondered if Derek told himself his uncle was gone, his personality burned away, too broken to be mended in anything that actually resembled the person he knew before the fire so he could be at peace with the fact he slashed his throat. Or maybe he looked under the ashes and he saw Peter in there and he just needed to get revenge for Laura because, after all, they all broke and burned even if Peter was the only one of the four survivors to be able to say he actually felt the flames.

After that, Peter texted Stiles to let him know he was going after Corinne. He was desperate enough to trust he wouldn’t die, but if he never came back, he would rather have at least one person knowing he didn’t run away like a coward.

No.

He wanted Stiles to know it wasn't betrayal. If he died, he’d rather Stiles had no doubts about Peter’s loyalties this time.

Stiles texted him back to tell him to not do anything stupid. It made Peter smile. His plan was to let the Desert Wolf - well-known assassin - find him and try to take him out. It was, on its own, what anyone would call stupid, but Peter appreciated the concern.

He considered sending Stiles a selfie to let him know he was ready but, in the end, he didn’t. He just drove around town, pretending to pick up the remains of his old life as if he was considering going back to what he had before he was thrown in Eichen. As if he was safe and unaware of everything going on in his town.

It didn’t take long for Corinne to find him.

When the first bullet went through the window shield, it was hardly a surprise despite it not being welcomed at all. Peter had to wonder if he was a bigger, better prey than their daughter or if he was just an easier target. Maybe even a practice target or just easy power to steal. He couldn’t help the voice in the back of his mind that insisted there was something this woman wanted revenge for and that his darling sister left him without a clue of understanding what it could be or that it would be coming one day. She shot at his car which wasn't his car a few times and he abruptly stopped in the middle of the road. The car spun once before it came to a stop. Peter accelerated, running his car off the road while she shot at him again. He knew what occasion she was trying to recreate with this whole blocking the road and shooting at the car and if he had any memories of the daughter he didn't lose, he was sure he would’ve been furious. This situation had probably been hellish for a younger shapeshifter and Peter couldn’t understand what Talia had in mind when she created the circumstances that led to those events. The only good thing that came from her actions was that Malia never burned with most of the Hales.

He stopped the car before it ran into a tree and escaped through the passenger's door. He kept himself hidden by the side of the car, waiting. It was not the first time Peter had been hunted.

“Come on, sweetheart, you were never too shy to play,” she taunted.

Peter listened to her, waiting for her to move closer before running into the woods. Corinne shot at him a few times. She had a much better aim than most hunters Peter had encountered in his life – probably because she could see much better than a regular human – and she hit him on his arm when she shot once again before taking off after him.

Peter roared from the pain. The gun was an annoyance and he had to take care of that before they could engage in a proper fight. He turned back at her and growled at her, flashing his eyes and showing his fangs and teeth. He had also just bought those clothes.

“Let’s play then,” he finally replied.

Peter knew, now, that he was faster and he thought this was something he should’ve known all along. She shouldn’t have been able to shoot him. It made him angry that she kept getting hits when the odds should’ve been in his favor.

Corinne aimed at him again and he ran, knowing what to do now, planning on disarming her. This was a fight for teeth and claws, she was cheating and he would not have it. She shot at him but missed, and he tackled her, holding her hand on the gun and making her shoot up. She used her free arm to claw at his face, going for his eyes and just barely missing.

Blood dripped from a line across Peter’s face and he roared at her face.

“You’re weaker than I remember and you still want to protect her,” Corinne sneered. “First Talia and now you. As if she’s so important; as if she deserves to be alive.”

Peter wanted to sink his claws into Corinne’s flesh; he could feel himself getting angrier and more violent even though her words felt completely disconnected from him. He wanted to draw blood and tear skin and break bones but he didn’t care about her, he didn’t remember her. This wasn't his revenge; it had nothing to do with him. He hadn't been there, he had no memory of ever seeing her face, of ever being with her. What did Talia do!? He needed to protect his pack and, at that moment, that was all she had become: a threat to his pack. A threat to his alpha.

Just like Talia.

It felt kinda surreal to roll around on the ground with Corinne, trying to get the upper hand, reaching for her throat and trying to pin her down while she fought back with the experience of someone he could've admired in another situation. He kept trying to tear her skin open and get her to bleed and she kept mocking him, mocking his motivations,  when all he wanted to do was roar at her and surrender to his most violent urges because he didn’t feel any connection to this woman. He didn’t remember her, he didn’t have any history with her and she didn't even know it. It had been taken from him like everything else, he had lost everything but Stiles and he was fighting for something else and she couldn't see it! She couldn’t understand that there was only Stiles now and she was a threat to him and to Peter and to whatever resemblance of a pack they had because she would walk all over them to get whatever it was she wanted.

Peter felt the world strangely distant. He felt vaguely annoyed when a piece was torn off his jacket, but it was mostly drowned by his desperation. She needed to die. They felt and hit a tree stump and that was when Peter finally managed to grab her neck, refusing to let go with claws ready to tear at the delicate skin of her throat. It was luck and Peter could feel his heart racing because he might never get another chance. His head ached and he felt dizzy for a moment that Corinne saw as the weakness it was because she gave up on trying to break his wrists and sank her claws into the small of his back. Peter growled in pain as she pushed her fingertips into the wounds, fighting in every way she still could, but he didn’t let go.

The pain broke Peter out of his lightheadedness. He ripped at the skin of her neck, feeling himself scream more than listening to it as he clawed at her throat until it was just a bloody mess beyond healing. He stood there breathing too fast and in pain until her arms went limp and his own wounds where her claws had been started to slowly heal. Blood kept dripping down his thighs and ass and he could feel the bullet wound throb. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears.

He stared at his hands and claws covered in blood, his vision a little fuzzy, and howled. Still breathing too fast for his liking, Peter blinked a couple times, and then he passed out on top of Corinne’s dead body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading so far!!
> 
> it's always fun to try my hand at stuff i don't usually write so trying to write peter and corinne's fight was an interesting exercise ~~although i really feel it's a scene that falls beyond my skill level~~  
>  despite this being a canon divergent fic, i have to say i got distracted watching where the series took so i lagged even more than i was expecting o//o hopefully the chapter is okay and i see you soon for the final installment


	6. coming up

After the confusion was gone, the fear came quickly. There was no escaping the dooming knowledge Peter was tired and bleeding and that he wasn’t needed anymore.

Again.

He had been used. There, lying half on top of a dead body and half on the dirt, with leaves sticking to him as if blood was glue, he could see clearly. The whole situation was stupid and Peter let himself be too close to the trees to see anything but. He was fucked now, he had been used, he was worthless.

Peter stumbled as he tried to get up. He was alone; no matter how much he howled, no one was answering his call. And yet, he felt the urge to howl again, to call for a pack that would never come.

He didn’t. He needed to think what to do now.

His body ached everywhere and he was covered in blood and dirt, dizzy and drained from a fight he was sure he won out of dumb luck more than out of strength and fairness. He suddenly stopped, not fully erected and not ready to run but he needed to listen. He stayed as still as he could and searched for a heartbeat: Corinne's heartbeat. He listened, looking for anything that would give away that she was still alive. Peter dropped to his knees again.

She was dead.

He moved his hand to clean the bits of soil off of his face, only stopping when he smelled the blood too close to his nose. It was drying on his hands and making his skin itch. Peter sighed and reached out for the tree stump for support but stopped. He pressed his hand against it, almost falling back immediately from the surprise of the static shock. He looked around, his head slowly starting to clear as he realized where he was. He wasn’t a stranger to that faint spark of life that kept people going; he had to kill her dead. She seemed dead but there was no such thing as too dead and Peter felt the dizziness slowly dissipating itself as he pushed through torn muscles and cracked bones just to be sure that her heart would not beat again.

He felt disgusting and tired but the fog had been lifted.

Peter looked around again and, for the first time, he saw where he was and that he had yet again given a life to the Nemeton for the safety of his pack. This tree had used him like a puppet and Peter couldn't complain because he knew he was safe now. He was sure of it now. He and Stiles and maybe even Derek and Cora were safe now. Maybe even Malia. No, he was kidding himself because he had no pack and if he was lucky, he guaranteed his own and Stiles’ safety. He put a hand on the stump to use it as support, bracing himself for whatever energy it felt the need to push against him. It was none. He watched the Nemeton for a moment before sighing. If this wasn’t an elaborated betrayal which he wasn’t so sure anymore, he had been lucky. He could see it now, it was so obvious. It had been obvious all along.

Peter let his hand fall from where it was resting on the tree and his hand left barely a couple fresh blood marks, most the blood drying on his skin and itching like hell. Peter wondered if the tree was taking him too or if Corinne got one too many hits but he felt so tired.

His life had been a collection of bad decisions.

He gave a life to the Nemeton because Stiles asked him for help. He felt strong again for the first time in weeks. He had no pack. It was likely he had been used.

Peter finally got up.

Sometimes Peter wondered if Cora was right and running away to South America was the sort of thing one should do. He would miss most comforts he was used to but he would have peace. It sounded shallow. Perhaps he was a very shallow person; he would rather have luxuries and safety than the satisfaction of saving twenty strangers. As long as he had pack…and that was the issue, wasn’t it? He didn’t have pack. He had Stiles and Stiles was…Stiles was something. That was the problem of wanting the smart ones if your mind was not all there.

Peter made his way through the trees, stumbling with every step as he slowly healed. There was a bullet still in his arm. He needed a plan and he didn’t have time to figure one out because, by the end of the forest, there was Stiles.

It was a surprise as much as an unwelcome comfort. Stiles, waiting by the end of the trees as if he had heard Peter howling, as if he heard a call meant for pack and as if he knew where to find Peter and how he would have had found Peter. It was suspicious at best and terrifying at worst like most of what Stiles did.  Peter stopped a few steps before the end of the trees, hiding in their shadows like it had always meant to be. He leaned against one of the trees, pressing his back against it and closing his eyes for a moment. He tried to stay calm. It could be explained, it didn’t have to be a trap, it didn’t have to be a lie. But he wouldn’t run into Stiles open arms just to let him stick a knife on his back and twist it. If this was a trap, he would go down fighting. It didn’t have to be one but it could be and he could see it clearly, he could see how they used him. He felt sane again for the first time in months.

Peter took a deep breath and tried to find the bullet in his arm with his claws, keeping his teeth pressed tightly to keep himself from making any sounds. He would wait for Stiles to make a move; he did come all the way here after all. There was a plan in place, Peter just had to figure it out.

Peter looked over his shoulder. Stiles was still waiting by the tree line, standing still with his hands in his pockets and just looking at the trees, eerily waiting as if he had known Peter’s path before Peter even started walking on it.

It was chilling.

The werewolf narrowed his eyes, ready to fight for his life a second time in the same night because it felt too much like a trap. Perhaps, he had come to dispose of the evidence. Perhaps, he had just set Peter up and this was a clean-up job. It didn’t matter. Peter wasn’t easy to kill.

Perhaps, Stiles had expected a very different outcome of that fight.

Peter felt his breathing quicken as his heart sank. He stepped out and away from the tree and growled lowly at Stiles.

Stiles took his phone out and used it as a flashlight, taking two steps close before he stopped. “Is that…yep. Blood all over, holy fuck. What did you _do_!?” he asked as if he hadn’t actually known all along what Peter had done, what Peter would do when he found Corinne. “I brought you a spare change,” he added and walked back to the Jeep parked by the road.

“You used me,” Peter said, mostly to himself before he actually found himself ready to accuse Stiles. “You used me,” he repeated, loud enough for Stiles to hear it with the distance between them.

Stiles sighed, his back still turned to Peter while he looked for whatever it was in the Jeep. Right then, Peter wouldn't put it above him to have brought a gun to put Peter down like an animal. He turned around, holding a bag. Peter was tense; he wanted answers, he wanted to feel safe. He should be able to feel safe.

 “It was Scott’s plan, alright,” Stiles started and threw the bag at Peter. It landed halfway between them, forcing Peter to walk a few steps closer to get it.

The beginning of the story didn’t promise a good ending and he still wanted Stiles. He still felt oddly safe with Stiles. He felt tired and stupid. He wanted his pack. This better end in an apology that Peter would not accept but deserved anyway.

"This is the part where you convince me not to rip your nice throat open," Peter said and walked to the bag, carefully, paying attention to the sounds and scents. He would not be caught in a trap and he was all too familiar with wolfsbane by now.

"You won't because you want me as your Alpha," Stiles said with a confidence that betrayed power he didn't seem to have. He smiled at Peter and Peter expected more than human teeth; he expected too many fangs and danger. It sent a chill down his spine. “Yeah,” Stiles rubbed his face a couple times and shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Yeah. Okay. Scott had a plan to get bad people we know to deal with our current bad guys, you know? Like Decaulion owned him for letting him walk and Gerard owned Argent for whatever and you owned…”

“You for rescuing me from the insane asylum holding me hostage because you put me there,” Peter roared at him, angry and hurt.

“It sounds really bad when you put it like that but it wasn’t exactly like…that?” Stiles offered.

“No? Do tell, Stiles. What part did I get _wrong_.”

“There is a bottle of water too, in there, if you want to, you know, wash your hands,” Stiles pointed at the bag and Peter would’ve felt thankful if he wasn’t so angry. They had used him like a tool like they always did. Stiles had come to do damage control because they had set him loose after finally finding a way to control him with Eichen House and he was furious, he couldn’t believe how far they had gone. Peter roared and Stiles held his hands up.  “No one was trying to use you. I thought…Malia wanted to go after the Desert Wolf on her own. It was her thing, you know,” he shrugged and looked away, in the direction Peter had come from through the trees as if he knew where the body was. “She would have _died_ , Peter. I had to do something and you were the only one who could help. Scott had another plan to help her, I don’t know what it was but I didn’t care. She would have died and I knew you could prevent that.”

Stiles took a deep breath and made a face at Peter. They watched each other for a few moments before Peter finally moved to get the bag. There was a shirt, a pair of sweatpants, a hand towel and a water bottle inside of it. He was thankful for it; his skin was itching and mostly his new clothes were torn beyond repair which was annoying him more than he would like to admit.

"Malia is driving to Mexico to get Kira. I told Scott it was best not to have her around if we could take care of this without her," Stiles waved a hand, gesturing towards the trees as if he was indicating Corinne's body in particular. Doing it again as if he saw it all and knew. "It was her fight."

"You used me," Peter insisted, Peter insisted, not wanting to let go despite knowing he would. There was no doubt there was a plan in place and he had played his part but he understood it. Stiles did exactly what Peter expected from him and pissed off as he was, he couldn’t find it in himself to hate him for it. He wanted Stiles to do this sort of thing for him. He wanted to be looked after like this, too.

“Look, I didn’t plan to have you committed so you could do this for me,” Stiles sounded annoyed. “It was Scott’s plan to use the killers we know instead of doing our own killing and it freed enough space in the agenda for the actual Beast so yeah, you can pout all you want but I don’t regret my own plan to get Malia out of harm’s way and I’m not going to fucking apologize for saving your ass when I know all too well how wonderful the treatment in the loony bin of hell is.”

Peter blinked, watching Stiles’ angry display. It felt…good; reassuring even. It was a reminder that there was more to Stiles than being Scott’s beta. Peter nodded and tried to wash some of the blood off his hands with the bottled water while they stood there in silence.

“Malia is safe,” he said after some time. It was obvious but it felt like a good way to break the silence.

He rubbed the towel on his hands and arms to try and clean himself as much as possible before changing his ruined clothes into the shirt Stiles got him. Most of his wounds had healed or started to heal by now.

“I think we killed the Beast,” Stiles said and Peter looked up, expecting more details. “I don’t know, I wasn’t there. ‘We’ is a very generous way of putting it. Someone did something, some Argents were involved, Lydia did her thing,” he watched as Peter stuffed the dirty clothes into the bag. “I got a second-hand account from Liam.”

“The beta with control issues,” Peter asked without asking and Stiles nodded.

When Peter was ready, Stiles made his way back to the Jeep, leaving the passenger's door open for the werewolf as a clear invitation before making his way to the driver’s seat. Peter hesitated for a moment before accepting it. Stiles had been right when he said Peter wanted him as his Alpha; he had asked because he wanted it and, by now, he wanted it because he needed it. He had been too close to losing his mind to tempt it by letting himself live as an Omega.

Peter got in and stared ahead at the road without saying anything, not looking at Stiles. Stiles glanced at him and then back at the road before he started the car. There was a lot left unsaid between them.

“Look,” Stiles started. “I’m sorry about Eichen. It wasn’t…” he pressed his lips in a thin line, reeking of frustration. “It wasn’t a ploy to get your help whenever. We just needed you gone.”

A reminder.

It hurt to hear it.

“Do you need me gone now?”

Stiles stayed silent. He rubbed the side of his face a couple times before he slammed his hand on the wheel with a groan.

“Yeah.”

Peter could understand that but he wouldn’t go quietly.

“I’m not going back to Eichen.”

“What? No,” Stiles looked at him for a second and then back at the road. “Not Eichen.

“I’m not going to any supernatural prison Scott put together.”

Stiles paused, staying silent for a moment. Peter had no idea what the original plan was but he wouldn’t go quietly. He had strength enough for one last fight and he would rather die than be trapped in his head again. He would not sit back and watch his mind crumble piece by piece as he wasted away because Scott McCall didn’t want him in his pack.

“That’s not what I meant,” Stiles finally said. “I thought about what you asked.”

Peter waited.

"It's not like... we can. I think we can be pack," Stiles paused. "It's not like just saying it does the trick, right?" he took a deep breath and Peter finally looked at him. "We're pack. Does it do anything for you?" Peter felt like laughing. It was almost embarrassing. "Jerk."

"I'm not rejecting your proposition," Peter said with a smile. "It's just an amusing one."

Stiles didn't seem to really mind his reaction.

“Give it just a couple months or so and then you’ll be okay,” Stiles hummed, drumming a song that Peter didn’t know on the car wheel. Peter leaned back on the passenger seat and closed his eyes. “I guess you don’t like feel it? Fine. I'm your alpha, right? Something like that? I don’t get it, I’m guessing you don’t get it enough but I’m willing to try it,” he watched Peter through the corner of his eyes. "Maybe we can get you the red eyes while I keep the political power of this...relationship? Pack?" Stiles drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Do I get to call you Pinky?" he asked and Peter rolled his eyes, making his whole head move.

Peter didn’t want to be the Alpha but he wanted his pack and what Stiles was offering felt like a cop out. He would have the power to have a pack and he would have the strength to protect them but he would still fall back for the actual Alpha. It was an odd arrangement but he was willing to try anything if it meant pack and, in particular, if it meant Stiles. He didn’t think he could’ve hung on for so long, with his mind so gone, if Stiles didn’t try so hard to put him back together.

"I don't want to be the Alpha," Peter confessed, knowing all too well that he was showing his neck, metaphorically speaking. He was making himself vulnerable, admitting to no longer wanting power and just being desperate when he was worthless and had nothing else to trade.

Stiles glanced at him and made a face.

"Someone has to be able to bring new people into the pack, right? And you'll just have the red eyes."

Peter had thought, not for the first time, what a shame it was that Stiles would never become a werewolf. He would be wonderful at it: powerful and terrible and his Alpha. As it was, Stiles didn't fully understand what he was asking. He sighed. “You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re the Brain.”

Stiles snorted, driving them to his house. Peter almost expected him to drive them to the limits of the town, to wish Peter good riddance and maybe good luck, and to come back someday. He could hear it in the back of his mind. Peter stared ahead suddenly nervous. He didn't want this burden but he wanted Stiles. The idea of Stiles driving them to the limits of the town and kindly suggesting Peter ran didn’t leave him until Stiles simply parked at the driveway of his home instead. He gave Peter time to shower and clean himself while he took down the material on his investigation board, then they'd talk. There was no need to worry about the Desert Wolf anymore so he had information to update.

Peter was tense.

He couldn't become an Alpha here. He couldn't have a pack with Stiles like this. He couldn’t stay. Whatever they could have, it would have to wait. Peter would have to leave. He trailed into the bathroom and closed the door.

Stiles called his name but he didn't answer. It felt like an ending. He washed himself, not even minding the smell of the soap that he disliked, just wanting to be clean. Peter just tried to let the water relax his body. Things would be fine. He couldn’t imagine himself being Alpha again and the idea scared him. The idea of trusting Stiles so much scared him. The idea of letting go of Stiles – temporarily as Stiles was suggesting – scared him. It was needed, he could do what it took. He could always do what it took and there was no reason to stop now, scared and weak. Stiles had accepted him and that was a good enough motivator.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he was ready.

Stiles was still taking down his investigation board; the Desert Wolf wasn't a threat anymore and it seemed like the doctors were gone as well. Peter was ready for the end. Stiles looked up.

"I will go with you when everything is settled."

Peter didn't understand it. There was nothing left behind. There was nothing to settle on Peter's side. Confusion must have shown on Peter's face because Stiles felt the need to explain it: "You asked me to think about it so I did. You might be ready to let everything behind but I’m not. Not yet. Maybe never," he bit his lip and paused. “There is my dad. Nothing can happen to him and I need to know he’ll be okay.”

Peter could understand that. He could appreciate that.

“I think you could move somewhere and find a way to get your red eyes,” Stiles told him after a moment and Peter felt the weight of those words hit him all at once. He wasn’t ready to be left to his own devices and, even if he knew he wouldn’t be left alone, not completely, he was suddenly afraid. He reached out and touched Stiles’ hand. “Then come back for me. I will be waiting. I will be ready.”

Peter stepped closer and held Stiles face, leaning in to kiss him. It was a harsh kiss, more desperate than Peter intended but it was excusable by the fact that it was, after all, a goodbye kiss, temporary as it was. He would come back, with red eyes, and Stiles would be waiting for him because they were pack but this – the kiss – this was because of something else entirely. If nothing else, it could count as the start of something. Peter wasn’t alone anymore; Stiles would make sure of it.

Peter looked for Stiles' hand again, looking for reassurance that it was alright. And it was. From now on it would be.

“Come back for me,” Stiles said again.

“I will,” Peter promised and while Peter picked the few clothes he had and packed a small bag to take on this journey, they didn’t have much else to say to each other.

Not now. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading it until the end!!
> 
> the song stiles references is "if you wanna" by the vaccines and he also references a 90s cartoon called pinky and the brains
> 
> also thank you koko for holding my hand to get courage to writing and posting it <3


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